I: For luck
Orders were for containment and elimination, no witnesses. The climate fell in line with those orders as if it had planned to do so all along. The bitter cold air bit at every inch of exposed skin and persistently burrowed through layers of clothing. The clouds had rolled in and snow was falling heavily, obscuring visibility. He crouched from his perch on top of the hill, a winding road slick with black ice down below him. He removed the glove from his right hand and held it above his head for a moment, gauging the slight variances of the air currents.
Even in these conditions, he could still make the shot.
He grabbed his sniper rifle from the nearby motorcycle and strode towards the most western point of the higher ground. The fresh snow crunched underneath his feet and then the weight of his body as he laid down to position himself and the rifle.
A brown speck on the road appeared in the distance.
Containment and elimination. Clean shot through the head of the driver. Multiple shots to the rest of the occupants. Leave a gun that could be traced back to the driver himself. To anyone else, it would look like a murder-suicide. It was exactly what HYDRA wanted. He readied himself, making small adjustments in the way his arms and shoulders. The brown speck slowly began to morph into a brown car. This was it. The targets were nearing. The car was in range for the first shot.
The soldier did not hesitate. A sharp echo resounded throughout the mountains. A second, then a third, then a fourth.
The car swerved and accelerated as the dead weight of the driver shifted forward. He stood up and removed the red herring pistol from a holster on his right hip. Anyone else would have felt a spike of adrenaline, or a twist of horror in their belly, but his heart beat steady and there were no cracks in his conviction; the need to complete his objective was all encompassing. A fire had broken out underneath the hood of the car when he reached the driver's side to confirm elimination. The thick, gray smoke coupled with the heavy snow clouded his vision but he saw the clear exit wound on the man's left temple.
A gurgle within the car.
He went over to the passenger side and ripped open the door with his left hand, pistol raised in his right. The fire crackled and spit, the unleashed fumes severely limiting his vision even as he stood in front of his targets. He squinted at the young woman in the seat: she was dead. Her painted lips were open in a half-formed scream, her head lolled to the side. Had the noise been a dying breath? No, there it was again.
A small bundle in her arms squirmed and cried. He lowered the pistol. That wasn't right. The briefing was specific. Four targets. Three men, all between the ages of thirty-two and forty-eight. One woman, approximately thirty. No infants.
He glanced in the backseat. Visibility was low but he could still make out the shape and size. The two people in the backseat were not adult stature.
This was wrong. He had made a mistake. The pistol in his hand trembled. What had he done?
The bundle let out an ear-piercing shriek.
What should he do?
Somewhere in his head, he heard a man scream in pain. He recognized it as his own voice. A sensation of falling lurched in his gut. A phantom jolt lingered in his left shoulder. Pieces of memories that would had not haunted him in ages resurfaced from the darker waters of his mind: A band was playing in the background and he had been dancing with pretty girls all night; frail Steve, filling out application after application with different addresses at the dinner table; the acrid burning of his first cigarette when he joined the army; it all coalesced and broke apart before he could make sense of it. His head was splitting in two.
A command rose above it all – complete the mission.
His jaw tightened and his eyes became distant.
What had he done? What had he done? What had he done? What had he done?
He raised the pistol slowly.
What had he done?
The infant reached out, wailing to be comforted.
WHAT HAD HE DONE?
He jumped, surprised to find his left arm buried in drywall. It wasn't snowing. In fact, it was downright sweltering. He was sitting upright on an old mattress, stained with his sweat. He drew back enough so he could observe the crater he had left behind, the dust from the blow swirling around him. He unclenched his fist and heard the subtle but distinct whirring of the gears within. He closed his eyes, his mouth was dry.
His flesh and blood arm reached out in the dark for the old lamp near his makeshift bed. The low light illuminated a small corner of the bare room but that was all he needed. He reached under the mattress and pulled out a small black journal with a pen attached to the cover.
The first sentence had been the most difficult to write:
My name is James Buchanan Barnes but my friends called me Bucky.
It had taken months of staring at blank paper to finally form the words. After that, they came to him like breathing air. Writing down a few simple sentences had thrilled him. It was almost as if with each bit he was reclaiming his identity. He read his earlier entries:
I had a best friend. His name was Steve.
I pulled him from the river. He didn't die.
He had hesitated.
I didn't kill him.
"I didn't kill him." He whispered to himself. It was a hollow reassurance but one that he needed. Of course, he hadn't killed him, he had watched Steve let out a gasping breath. He hadn't killed him. But he had been close. His stomach churned.
I had a mother and a father and a younger sister.
A pamphlet announcing the new Captain America exhibit within the Smithsonian slipped out. It was crinkled and worn at the corners. It had been strange to see his face on a memorial. It was unsettling but true to its meaning; he would never again be who he was, that person had died.
I was part of the 107th Infantry. I was a sergeant.
I fell off the train.
Again, a long pause between entries. He had begun to remember things after that, horrors stirring at the edges of his subconscious. He had opened and closed the journal many times since then but only to re-read what he had previously written. But there was still one last entry left to skim over. He was acutely aware that he had written it five months ago.
I met a girl. Her name is Emma.
He felt the familiar gnawing of guilt deep within his bones. Worse than that, her absence permeated his every waking moment. He was being eaten alive without the courtesy of a fast digestion. He glanced at the wall; he knew why he had desperately tried to break through it during his nightmare. The backpack he carried around as he moved from place to place was hidden behind the drywall. He was ready to run again.
It was easy to pick up and go, he mused. He had very little possessions. Anything he needed, like food or clothes, he could obtain along the way. He was fine with having no attachments. Except for one. If he reached within the backpack's inner pocket on the right he would find a shiny American penny. He had a few other currencies stashed away but that penny was the most valuable.
She had pressed it into his palm and given him a smile she didn't mean. "For luck."